The world-famous email column

Issue #41 – “Summer of Lust” – August 2003

-To me, summer in New York City is like going through puberty. Beforehand, you’re both apprehensive and excited about what lies ahead. Then, you don’t even realize it’s underway until halfway through when you start breaking out and can’t stop thinking about girls. And when it’s all over, your memory of what actually happened is fuzzy, the frequent awkward moments replaced forever in your mind with sporadic instances of glory. The summer is a time when twentysomethings are on a voracious prowl for all things new – that bigger apartment, that sweeter job and, of course, that next piece of ass. Hell, it’s August and even Kobe Bryant and Harry Potter can’t keep their hands to themselves. Summer of Love? No way. It’s the Summer of Lust.

-Guys on the streets of New York this summer are not looking or peeking or glancing or gazing at women, they are full-out gawking. I don’t know if it’s because we’re horny or because your thong is showing, but ladies, I’ll be the first to admit it – we have lost all semblance of self-control. If it wasn’t for the hordes of yellow-shirted Greenpeace volunteers clogging the sidewalks, I swear we’d be running around unchecked, accosting every blonde with a pulse and a low-riding terrycloth sweatsuit.

-Meeting women this summer has taken on an additional twist. The fact that college kids two years younger than me just graduated, combined with the fact that there are tons of summer interns in the city right now has produced one very weird experience: hanging out with my friends’ younger sisters. The situation is always the same. I’ll be hanging out a bar and I’ll meet a cute girl that looks vaguely familiar. She seems to know me yet I can’t figure it out. Then the kicker: “Oh I’m Mike’s sister, I met you when I visited the fraternity house four years ago.” I immediately think, “Oh shit,” then excuse myself, throw cold water on my face and get the hell out of there!

-There have been some marked changes in the New York nightlife scene over the past few months. For instance, the new “in” spot at the bar is no longer the VIP room in the back or the tables near the front. No, the new “in” spot is actually outside the bar and around the corner, where flocks of hopelessly addicted chain-smokers huddle in deference to the new smoking ban. The landscape has changed such that by taking a brief cab ride down Park Avenue South, you can actually tell which lounges are most happening by the size of the nearby smoke cloud. It’s pretty pathetic.

-And who can forget the phoenix-like rise this summer of the phenomenon known simply as “guest bartending”? Here’s how it works: some chick you’re somewhat friendly with mass emails everyone in her address book, inexplicably CC’ing everyone instead of BCC’ing, which results in the inevitable reply-to-all clusterfuck. Her message? She’s “guest bartending,” so everyone should drop everything, call all their high school friends, college friends and camp friends, and come to some lounge recently rated by Zagat as “consistently abominable.” There, forty sweaty bankers in blue button-downs with black attache bags slung across their shoulders clamor at the undersized bar while the guest-bartending girl flails clumsily with the soda gun and serves way-too-strong drinks for free with a wink and a smile that shames you into tipping her five bucks anyway. I think I’ll pass.

-Because I’m the kind of guy that watches ESPNEWS during commercials of SportsCenter, I’ve inadvertently been inundated with Kobe Bryant coverage. While watching this spectacle, the only thing that I could think of was that I have never once been unfaithful to any of my past girlfriends. Cheating just seems like such a pain in the ass to me. What with all the lurking and sneaking and lying. I get tired just thinking about it. Besides, who has time for adultery these days?

-This summer’s other most famous hornball is, of course, Harry Potter. Millions of people, myself included, devoured Book #5 to see if Harry would finally get in Cho Chang’s pants. Now I won’t reveal what happens, but I do have one complaint. J.K., darling, honey, you’re a fabulous author, but do the British know the meaning of succinct? Do you know what it’s like to carry around a 900-page hardcover? I couldn’t even read in bed because every time I rested the book on my stomach, I felt like I had to take a piss.

-This is the time of year when many college grads and out-of-towners move to the Big Apple. And that means finding an apartment. And that means dealing with one of the country’s most notorious swindlers: the New York City apartment broker. Never have such a collection of poorly trained charlatans controlled such important assets. Here’s a typical conversation between a newly minted Ivy League grad from the Midwest and her rapidly balding broker: “I’ve got an amazing apartment for you, you’ll love it.” “Really? In the East Village?” “No, it’s a little farther uptown, uh, Upper West Side actually. But it’s sick, I promise.” “Um, OK, it’s a three-bedroom though, right?” “It’s actually a studio…but it’s huge! You’ll love it, I promise.” “Uh, OK, how much is it?” “It’s a little out of your price range but we can always negotiate. Why don’t you just come see it? It’s unbelievable. I’m telling you, it’s got like five exposures, beautiful hardwood floors, it’s sick.” “Sounds great. You’ve seen it before, right?” “Well…actually, no.”

-These days, when you’re really in a crunch to find a new place or a new roommate, no one ever really helps you out, they just suggest you use the web. “Hey, didn’t you say you knew someone who was looking for a roommate?” “Uh, maybe, uh, I don’t know, uh, I’m kinda busy. Did you check craigslist?” Lazy bastards.

-And if you’re not looking for a new apartment this summer, chances are you’re looking for a new job. After a year or two of mind-numbing tedium, you’ve convinced yourself that there’s got to be a better cubicle out there somewhere, so you clandestinely start putting together your resume. Writing your resume boils down to one thing: making the dumbass shit you do sound impressive. “Did” becomes “utilized,” “helped” becomes “facilitated,” “boss’s dry cleaning” becomes “value-added relationship management.” When I was on Wall Street, I used to love reading the resumes of frat boys like myself. Because I knew that “fraternity treasurer” really means “beer purchaser and money launderer.”

-After you’ve adjusted the margins on your resume for the twentieth time and have finally sent it out and gone on interview after interview, nothing is worse than waiting for “them” to get back to you. Ask any job-seeking twentysomething how their search is going and they’ll always tell you the same thing: “I think I’m pretty close to getting something, I’m just waiting for them to get back to me.” I hate “them.” “Them” cowers behind an anonymous assistant every time you call. “Them” makes you endure the cruel and unusual process of interviewing for a job without knowing how much it pays. “Them” is leading you on even though “them’s” niece who just graduated from Penn State has the position all locked up. You know what I say? Fuck them.

-Nothing makes my day like receiving a corporate farewell email. After “them” finally gives your co-worker a new job and when he’s done taking down all his Dilbert cartoons and stealing stacks of Post-it notes, the only thing left to do before leaving is write a mass goodbye email. Through thinly veiled euphemisms like “incredible learning experience,” “keep in touch,” and “warm regards,” you can almost feel the undeniable hatred toward everyone in the office. And unlike guest bartending, this is one email that is always BCC’ed.

-Unfortunately, the summer is also when New York is besieged by tourists. I fucking hate tourists. Actually, let me qualify that statement. I only hate tourists because some New Yorkers are so dumb that they can’t tell the difference between tourists and regular people. I’ll be walking in midtown, minding my own business, when a red-vested asshole will tap me on the shoulder and ask, “Excuse me, sir, would you like a double-decker bus tour of the city?” Hmm…let me think about that…do I mother-fucking look like I want a double-decker tour of the city? Do you see a digital camera on me? Am I wearing a yellow Yankees cap or unusually high tube socks? Why don’t you try asking the twenty dudes from Kansas behind you who are actually taking pictures of the bus?

-And just in case you’re new to the city and can’t spot the tourists, they usually come in groups of four: the father is slightly overweight and sports a moustache, the mother is holding a map and wearing a visor, the son is holding on to his mom’s leg and whining, and the daughter is dressed strangely slutty for someone her age. Oh, and by the way people, a blinking “Don’t Walk” signal means GO! The only reason you should be waiting on the corner is if you’re a police cadet or a seeing-eye dog.

-Though only a month remains in the Summer of Lust, I feel like a lot has happened already. For instance, I discussed with my friends for days on end where we should go for a long weekend, though inevitably we’ll end up never leaving the city. I went fishing with three buddies and no one wanted to rub sun tan lotion on each other, so we all got third-degree scalds on our backs. I argued with my roommate over whether we should itemize our astronomical air-conditioning bill because I’m home all day but he has a more powerful model. And I received dozens of angry emails from strangely optimistic Red Sox fans promising me that this is “our year.” But when Labor Day comes and autumn is upon us, I’ll take solace in the fact that of all the beautiful things to gawk at year-round on the streets of New York, for my money nothing beats a brunette in a wife-beater on a hot summer day.

-As always, here are some random things I’ve been ruminating about lately…

-Are there any accidents not caused by overturned tractor-trailers?

-Much to my father’s chagrin, another summer has passed without me taking up golf. I try to explain to him that it’s not that I don’t like the sport itself, it’s just that it involves my two least favorite activities: getting up early and being outside when it’s hot.

-My friend Zach is a long-message-leaver. When I check my voicemail and I hear it’s him, I know I’m in it for the long haul. He’s telling stories, he’s making plans, he’s telling me about this movie he saw, he’s changing the plans, he’s answering his landline, he’s leaving his number even though I already have it. And he wonders why I don’t call him back.

-Does anyone ever actually use the vosotros form in Spanish?

-You know I’ve never once used a semicolon in my life? I’m not really sure how they work, and when Word puts one in automatically it always looks so weird so I delete it and use a comma instead.

-For some reason I always get screwed with the seating arrangements at big dinners. If it’s a big round table, then everyone has an equal opportunity to make and be part of the conversation. But I always show up late when there’s a rectangular table and all the good seats at the midpoints of each side are taken so I end up all the way at one end next to the guy that nobody knows, desperately trying to listen in to figure out why everyone in the middle is laughing and hope it’s not about me.

-And speaking of restaurants, I hate when you are sitting around with some buddies casually having a few beers and the waitress comes over and your friends order another beer. The waitress inevitably looks to you to see if you want another one too. You look to your beer and see that you are in a state of “refill limbo,” meaning you still have 3/7 of your beer remaining. If you order now, you’ll have to hurry to finish the beer before the next one arrives. If you pass, you might be stuck with an empty glass for a while. The default move is to order the refill and chug your beer so as to realign yourself with your friends for the next round. So much for casual drinking.

-Since my roommate and I never keep any food in the house, his girlfriend sometimes buys snacks for him and leaves it in the kitchen. So just like when I was five years old, they have given me strict rules as to when I can eat cookies. The cardinal rule is that I can’t open a new box or eat the last one of anything. I don’t understand why this is such an iron-clad rule. More importantly, in a box of six it only gives me a four-snack window!

-I actually used the word “unbeknownst” in a sentence the other day. I felt like I was in Star Wars.

-There is one thing that I have always thought TV weather reports were missing – yesterday’s weather. Seriously, I can’t tell you how many times I’ve checked the weather and still had no idea what to wear. Telling me “today’s high is going to be 73 degrees” gives me no basis for comparison. What they should say is, “Hey, remember how yesterday even your balls were sweating? Well, today is going to be even hotter.” Now that’s helpful.

-Memo to anyone wearing fanny packs: no, they’re still not acceptable no matter what. Just because it says North Face on it doesn’t make it OK.

-Memo to dudes wearing class rings: what are you thinking? The only guys who should be wearing rings are married men and Derek Jeter.

-Memo to people wearing t-shirts from Urban Outfitters: vintage t-shirts aren’t cool if they cost thirty bucks and everyone has the same one.

-Memo to dudes in suits wearing baseball caps: the fact that you are wearing a suit pretty much eliminates the possibility that you’re going to the beach or a baseball game, thus by wearing a hat for no apparent reason, you are actually calling more attention to the fact that you are clearly bald.

-Memo to food service employees: if you leave those latex gloves on the whole day, including when you handle money and use the bathroom, it kind of defeats the purpose.

-Memo to medical personnel: when you stand outside in your scrubs on your shift break smoking Marlboro Reds, it sort of sends the wrong message, you hypocritical morons.

-Memo to people who set their watches five minutes fast so that when they think they’re late they actually have more time: that’s the dumbest fucking thing I have ever heard. Seriously.

-As I have noted many times in this column, I can never remember anyone’s name. In fact, names are my third biggest weakness (behind brunettes in wife-beaters and a complete lack of sense of direction). I am also a sarcastic wiseass who can’t resist cracking a joke at someone else’s expense. Surprisingly, this actually helps with my names problem. The other day my friend Jen started telling me a story and I stopped her like, “Wait, Jessica, who is that?” And Jen was like, “She’s the blonde that you met last time I visited.” “Oh yeah, I made fun of her shirt and she hated me.” “No Karo, that was Linda. You told Jessica the gap in her cleavage was unusually wide and she started crying.” “OK, right, Linda: shirt, Jessica: cleavage. Got it!”

-You know what freaks me out? Wet fingerprints on the toilet paper roll. It’s bad enough that you’re using someone else’s bathroom without having to look at the phantom presence of the previous shitter.

-Not to toot my own horn or anything, but when you’re right, you’re right. In Ruminations #34, I predicted the imminent demise of a trendy lounge called Spread that opened up down the block from me. I’m happy to report that it went belly-up last month. Score one for the little people! Also, I want to give a shout-out to subscriber Amy G. of Philadelphia, who while reading Ruminations and laughing, accidentally swallowed a huge gulp of hot coffee, convulsed so hard she cracked a rib, and had to go to the emergency room. Get well soon!

-Quote of the Month. My apartment building has a new doorman. The guy is not physically able to remember me and my roommate Brian. Months have passed and every time we walk in he thinks we are someone else. The other day, after asking us our apartment number for the thousandth time, we finally got fed up and asked him why the hell he doesn’t remember us. He peered at us through his glasses and said, “Well, you guys are dressed differently today.” Brian looked at him for a moment with sheer incredulity and then replied, “Dude, we dress differently every day.” And, no, he still doesn’t remember us.

-I think that the phrase “It’s girls night out” is the new version “I’m washing my hair” when it comes to excuses why a girl can’t go out with you. Women act like “girls night out” is some sort of secret, sacred ritual. But I think I know what’s going on. It’s twelve girls in heels going to an overpriced restaurant where everyone orders a salad or the tuna, the last three guys that each girl hooked up with is given an official nickname, at least one dish gets sent back, everyone gets tipsy off two glasses of white wine, the bill is paid on twelve different American Express cards, and then everyone leaves and calls each other to gossip about all the other girls. See, I know what’s up.

-Whenever I get a spam email with the subject “Stop paying for porn!” I think to myself, who’s paying?

-And, finally, I’m a simple man. I really am. I’m just a Pert Plus kind of guy, really easy to get along with. OK, maybe I have a few quirks. Like I can’t go to sleep without having a glass of water on my nightstand. I still have trouble getting the straw into a juice box. I hate coconut, white chocolate, karaoke, and the WNBA. I’m a pen-chewer and a nail-biter. I prefer plastic utensils to real ones. I refuse to pluck my eyebrows. My goals for the future include reaching such a position of power that people use the word “abdicate” when I retire. I have to use sun tan lotion that is PABA-free but I have no idea what PABA is. Nyquil actually keeps me up. I can’t pack a suitcase when people are watching. I’m completely addicted to chapstick. My hair is turning red instead of gray. More often than not I swallow gum instead of spitting it out. I go for the first parking spot I see no matter how far away it is. I have to change into a darker shirt before eating anything with red sauce because I always get it all over myself. And, of course, I have to wash my hands after touching animals, subway poles, money, bathrooms, fast food, strippers, small children, or public mailboxes. In other words…fuck me.